Third Times the Charm

The first day she saw him, he wore a brown cap and navy-blue tie. An oxygen tank sat beside his feet, and his hands trembled ever so slightly.

On the second day, his tie was striped, and he ordered their new pumpkin-spice coffee with cream. 

On the third day, a dandelion was pinned to his shirt. She smiled, nodding as she poured his coffee.

“That’s a very nice flower,” She said, and he met her gaze with a smile. He tapped a shaky finger against the dandelions stem.

“It’s my wife's birthday.” He said. She grinned.

“You must love her a lot.” She said, and he nodded. 

“Oh yes,” He told her, and reached for the steaming mug. “Very much.”

On the sixth day, he was wearing a Veterans pin, and she asked him if he lived in one of the Senior Residencies. He laughed some, then raised his napkin against his lips as he coughed. 

“Never,” He told her, and when he drew the napkin back to his lap, he was smiling. “I live with my nephew.” She nodded, using her thumb to wipe a drop of coffee off the lip of his mug. 

“He must be very handsome, to be related to someone such as yourself.” She hummed, and the man laughed again. He shook his head lightly.

“Oh no,” He waved his hand noncommittally and leaned forward, cupping the mug in his hands. “The only family I have is from my wife’s side.” 

She asked about his wife on the seventh day. He smiled solemnly. 

“My dear,” He said, “My wife has been dead for almost twenty years.” She had begun to apologize when he waved a hand. 

“Don’t be sorry.” He advised “I’ve already cherished every moment and more.”

Day twelve was slow. The cafe was empty except for the old man with the oxygen tank. The girl busied herself for a few moments behind the counter before pouring herself a cup of hot mulled cider. The man was looking out at the window, he looked up when she cleared her throat. 

“Can I sit with you?” She asked, and he nodded, eyes brightening as he straightened.

“Please,” He gestured to the chair adjacent and she smiled. She placed her mug on the table and pulled up the chair, crossing her ankles as she sat. She untied her apron and laid it across her lap. The man smiled when she did. He pointed a shaking finger to her torso. 

“I hadn’t noticed you were pregnant,” He said. She beamed, glowing as pregnant women do, and crossed a hand over her blossoming stomach. 

“It’s still early,” She said, almost humming as she glanced to her middle. She met the man's eyes again as he sipped his drink. “I’m only a few months along.” The man raised his mug, even if only a few centimeters. 

“Congratulations.” He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture, clinking her mug with his. She smiled.

“Thank you.” He hummed as he set his mug back on the table.

“Y’know,” He said, grazing his tongue over chapped lips. “My Mother was the first great love of my life.” Her eyebrow quirked, and she smiled over the lip of her mug. 

“Only the first?” She mused, and the man's eyes twinkled in response. 

“Oh yes,” He said, and leaned forward for a second sip. He cleared his throat afterward and straightened his back along his chair. 

“She was born 1916 in Czechoslovakia, only two years before it was founded, during the peak of the first world war. Reina Alexsandra Vartoughi, born premature to my grandparents, Friedrick and Petra. However, as peace settled, the Russian Civil War was just beginning, and my Grandfather passed shortly afterwards. My Mother was barely five years, and my Grandmother just shy of twenty-eight, when a group of Czechs made the move west. Seven widows, with thirteen children between them.

"They ended up getting picked up by a French circus as they passed through Vienna. My Mother once told me that she had been terrified; sudden screaming, the sounds of animals and people alike, and my Grandmother, sobbing and pleading for refuge. They were caged and starved for three days; the elder women giving themselves up for pleasure. The circus owner was a vain man, with hats made of feathers and coats made of fur. His wife was even more so—a formerly Austrian woman nicknamed ‘Marie’ for her resembling aesthetic to that of the former Queen of France. She was passing through the circus train one day when she heard my Grandmother sing—like a nightingale draped in silks and other fine textiles—and struck her a deal. If my Grandmother made decent pay in the circus, she and my Mother would be released once they passed through England.” 

“What did she do?” The barista asked, an elbow propped between her chin and the table. The old man's eyes shone.

“She sang. Day and night. She learned to dance and taught my Mother, and once two months had passed, they arrived in Glasgow under new identities. My Mother's beautiful Czech name, shortened to Alexandra Vaughn. Other women were not so fortunate, and some much more. My Mother once recollected a bearded lady who had whip-marks across her back and shoulders, and later dedicated her teen years to advocating the abolishment of slavery. 

"She was eighteen, one evening, and attended a protest that later turned into a riot. A bystander threw himself in front of my Mother to shield her from an oncoming blow, and landed himself in the hospital for three nights. My Grandmother called him a foolish boy, but even she couldn’t hide her discontempt for my Father. My Mother had brought him a poundcake whilst he was in the hospital, and invited him for dinner once he was released. 

"They married soon afterward, once my Mother had gotten pregnant for the first time. My Father moved in with my Mother and Grandmother, and they converted the sewing room into a nursery furnished with lilac wallpaper and silk curtains. They lost the baby over the winter, a boy, as well as a daughter two years later. They accepted that it wasn’t time yet for them to start a family, and my Father enlisted in the army. He was deployed for four months before my Mother realized she was pregnant.” 

The barista smiled. 

“With you?” She asked softly. The man nodded. 

“With me.” He smiled, then sighed. “She sent him a letter, but they never heard back.” The barista shook her head.

“That’s horrible.” She said, and he shrugged.

“Perhaps,” He agreed, and held out his mug with a smile. “May I have a refill?”

He continued to come in every day afterward, and they told each other stories when the cafe was idle.

On the seventeenth day, he stayed later than he ever had before. The barista removed her apron and dimmed the back lights as the sun began to set. The man was looking out the window when she joined him at his table.

“Are you waiting for someone?” She asked, adding a packet of sugar to her tea. He nodded and drew his gaze back to hers.

“My nephew,” He said, and she hummed.

“On your wife's side,” She remembered, and smiled when the man nodded. “Will you tell me about her?” She asked. His eyes shone with boyish glee and he grinned, nodding. 

“My Maybelle,” He crooned. The barista sipped her tea. “I was nearly twenty-one when I attended the University of London. I spent my first three years out of high school travelling the United Kingdom, when I found myself growing more and more peculiar about social work, similar to my Mother. I received word of my acceptance six months after I applied, and my Mother helped move me into a dorm the week following. 

"Two weeks into my philosophy course, a fellow student and I struck a debate about equal wage. Things became so heated that she struck me right across the cheek and called me a privileged moron.” The barista tried and failed to suppress a giggle at the lovestruck expression dawning on his face. “Now, before then, I had never thought of myself as privileged, coming from a single-salary household with no father, but to a brown woman in her first year in university, I could imagine the misunderstanding.

"I spent the next three days educating myself more on the topic, and found myself to be in the wrong. When I called my Mother to tell her of my predicament, she called me an idiot. So before class the following afternoon, I pulled her aside, presenting her a daisy and an apology. She had flushed, stroking the petals of the flower and stammering an apology for hitting me. I remember laughing, and telling her I deserved it. We ended up sitting together, passing notes back and forth like school-children, and do you know what she said to me at the end of the day?” 

“What?” The barista asked. He smiled.

“That for future reference, dandelions were her favourite.” He took a sip before continuing.

"She was majoring in nursing, and often confided in me how she wished to be a neuroscientist. She was seventeen and a half when she’d applied, listing a recommendation letter from renowned practitioner Gail Heron. She came from a family of five; her mother, father, two brothers, and herself. They lived on the outside of London, in what she used to describe as the Dreary-Fog-Hour, where it was often miserable. Her father was crippled from war, leaving her two older brothers to provide for them, in one of the most discriminatory eras to grace Europe. 

"At fifteen, she got her first job filing papers in a medical office, where she met Dr. Heron, who took an immediate liking to her. The older woman soon became something of a mentor to my wife, and I was introduced to Dr. Heron on our fourth date. Three days afterward, Maybelle broke up with me.” He smiled lightly at the baristas awestruck expression and shook his head.

“I was distraught, to put it lightly. After only four dates, I knew I wanted nothing more than to marry her.”

“But why did she break up with you?” The barista asked. The man gave her a sad smile.

“She was raped. She was leaving one of her night classes when two boys from her class wrestled her into an empty classroom. She discovered she was pregnant the night I met Dr. Heron. I ended up reaching out to her after I’d had a few days to process the breakup, and she began sobbing over the phone. She told me she was dirty, and that she didn’t think I’d want anything to do with her once she had an abortion. That was the first time I told her I loved her. I accompanied her to her abortion the following week, perfromed by Dr. Heron. She later told me that was the moment she realized she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. 

"And she did. I proposed to her one year after she graduated, and we married the following year. She was the second great love of my life, and I’m thankful for every minute I was by her side.” A pair of headlights flashed through the window, and he turned his head. A faded pickup was pulling into the parking lot, and the man hummed. 

“Well,” He said, pushing his empty mug into the middle of the table. “Thank you for the coffee.”

She had a doctors appointment on the nineteenth day. When she got to work on the twentieth, his eyes lit up.

“You weren’t here yesterday,” He said, already pushing his mug to her. She grinned as she poured his coffee.

“I had a doctor's appointment.” She said, and the man's eyes faltered.

“Are you okay?” He asked, and she smiled gently. 

“Yes,” She nodded, and rubbed a hand over her stomach. “I’m having a boy.” His face stretched into a wide smile. He pulled his mug back towards himself with trembling fingers. 

“I remember the excitement,” He mused, and traced his thumb along the lip of his mug. “My favourite part was decorating the nursery.” The barista met his gaze in bafflement.

“I thought you said all your family was on your wife's side?” She asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity. The man hummed and waved her to the chair across from him.

“Not always,” He said, smiling. “The third and final great love of my life was my daughter. Maybelle and I discovered we were pregnant the year she turned thirty. We both knew there were additional risks to having a baby while ‘older’.” The waitress grinned. “But we were absolutely ecstatic. We spent the next nine months preparing for the baby; decorating the nursery, going shopping, reading parenting articles, and telling Maybelles family. Everyone was thrilled, even Maybelles mother, with whom their relationship had become strained. Things only started going wrong at the beginning of her third trimester. 

"Maybelles blood pressure kept rising, and she was confined to bed rest. It was a very stressful pregnancy, but she was worth it. Farrah Alexis Vaughn. Born seven pounds and two ounces, two weeks early, and deaf. The diagnosis took the first three months of her life, and Maybelle had been absolutely devastated for Farrah. We adored her more than anything, and we all cried the first time she got her hearing aids fitted. She was five when we found the perfect pair, and she had already been proficient in sign language. She loved music, and often laid down in front of the stereo to feel the bass. 

"She had beautiful caramel skin, and curls that rivaled my own. I called her my Amber, the same gem as her birthstone, and the jewel that would be embedded into a ring I was planning to give her on her eleventh birthday. She was homeschooled up until Grade Six, by myself, whilst Maybelle finally began the neuroscience fellowship at the hospital. She was so bright, and incredibly skilled in mathematics, much like Maybelle. She thrived on puzzles; crosswords and sudoku, solitaire and cribbage. 

"She started figure skating the same year she entered middle school, and Maybelle and I were cautious to say the least. We attended every practice, every competition, and every performance. She was like an angel on the ice. She’d never stop, not even when the old pond froze over.” His smile turned sad, and the waitress shook her head.

“I’m sorry.” She said, and he waved his hand in a dismissive manner.

“I’m not.” He rebutted. “She was a happy girl, even with her disability, and if nothing else I’m thankful she found something she was passionate about.” The waitress hugged her stomach. The man made a humming noise. “Do you have carrot cakes?”

Day twenty-three was the last day she saw him, and a caramel toned man entered the cafe a few days later. The old man had passed away in his sleep, and they were holding a funeral at the end of the week. She was invited, and so she went.

A kleenex in her purse and her hands cupping the rising bump of her stomach, she watched alone amongst others as a mahogany casket lowered into the earth, and remembered the last thing he’d said to her.

‘Did you ever remarry?’ She’d asked one day, and he shook his head.

‘Most people are lucky enough to have even one love of their life,’ He said. ‘I was lucky enough to have three, and I don’t intend to keep them waiting much longer.’

She arrived home that evening to an empty home, and an even emptier refrigerator. She laid her purse on the floor, curled up on her couch, and began to sing her baby a lullaby.